


audere est facere

by Claudia_flies



Series: Latin for lovers [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Cock Warming, Corporal Punishment, Explicit Sexual Content, Figging, Ice Play, Impact Play, M/M, MCU Kink Bingo, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Rough Sex, Spanking, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 11:30:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15605334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claudia_flies/pseuds/Claudia_flies
Summary: It’s not like they used to do those things every week, not even every month, if he’s really honest with himself, but he’d thought that maybe now things would be different. That Bucky would just know, would just do it when Steve needed it.





	audere est facere

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the MCU Kink Bingo 'Impact Play' square.
> 
> This is a sequel to [a bene placito](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13104468), so it might make more sense if you've read that first, but if you're here only for the pornz please carry on!
> 
> Please heed the tags. This fic contains a lot of very under negotiated kink. So, don't do as Steve and Bucky do!
> 
> Beta'd by Zilia who is without equal in awesomeness. Thank you also for Xantissa for cheerleading.

 

_to dare is to do_

 

 

Bucky’s been living in the apartment for two weeks but nothing’s happened.

_Nada. Zilch._

They all but live together now, Bucky’s things having slowly migrated from his suite on the seventy-second floor in the Tower to Steve’s on the seventy-third. Their dirty socks and pants now mingling happily together on the floor of the bedroom and in the laundry hamper. Bucky’s books and endless glasses of water filling the bedside table near the window. Even if he’s still insisting on sleeping where the best sightlines are.

Steve’s tried to prod him, just a little. A dirty plate left on the counter, or socks on the bathroom floor, but Bucky just sighs good-naturedly and cleans them away. Drinking all of Bucky’s single-origin Colombian coffee only gets him a frustrated huff and Bucky heading to the supermarket on his own. It’s driving Steve crazy.

It’s not like they used to do those things every week, not even every month, if he’s really honest with himself, but he’d thought that maybe now things would be different. That Bucky would just _know_ , would just _do it_ when Steve needed it. Would see that it’s something Steve wants _now_.

He wonders if he’s going a bit overboard when he starts to actively look for ops that would require an air drop, just so that he could do them without a parachute. That had been what’d worked last time. It’s not that extreme, really, he tells himself.

 

 

In the end, when it finally happens it’s not even something he’d planned, something he’d thought about. There was no air drop, no planning, just a call to assemble for a suddenly reactivated Hydra cell in Cleveland.

Steve’s crouched behind a tipped-over filing cabinet in the blandest of bland office buildings, his shield raised to deflect the volley of bullets coming his way from the doorway. The hostages are cowering on the floor, their hands zip-tied behind their backs. Steve can see the white of their eyes when he peeks from behind the cabinet.

He can see the men working the heavy fire door open. They have him pinned and he’s the only one who’d made it into the room before the security grates had come down and isolated the different sections of the building. He knows that Tony’s working on getting the system back online, but it won’t be in time. Not for the hostages.

It’s not really a choice anymore, and as if reading his thoughts, he hears Bucky through the comms. “Steve! Steve, don’t you fucking dare! I know what you’re thinking, don’t you fucking…!”

He turns off his comm unit with a flick of his finger. The hostages aren’t going to make it if he doesn’t; he knows that, Bucky knows that. There isn’t enough time to wait for backup or for the system to come back online.

Steve takes a deep breath, squeezes the strap of the shield in his fist, and leaps over the cabinet into a hail of bullets.

 

 

Bucky isn’t at the apartment when Steve gets back from the weapons lockers, and he feels the disappointment like a heavy stone in his belly. Fingers clenching into fists against his side. They haven’t spoken since Steve turned the comms off, not even in the jet on the way back. Bucky had shut himself in the cockpit with Clint, clear in his inclination to not speak with Steve.

With nothing else to do and the empty apartment stretching out before him, Steve heads to the shower. Scrubbing away the grime and dirt under the steaming hot water helps a little. He tries to not think of Bucky’s hands, the way he’d wrapped one of the leather straps of his uniform around his knuckles in the jet on the way to Cleveland and _pulled_ it tight. The way the creak of the leather had made Steve’s knees feel like jello. He rubs his fingers over his ass as he washes, squeezing the flesh hard enough to hurt, but it’s just not the same.

He dries himself haphazardly, rubbing the towel over his hair, not caring how it spikes up in all directions. There’s a pair of old sweats left on the bench, and he pulls them on. Heads back to the living room, thinking of getting some food. There’s always something quick and easy in the fridge that doesn’t require him to think or even taste.

Steve makes it halfway to the kitchen before something in the living room makes him stop in his tracks.

Or more accurately, some _one_.

Bucky’s standing in the middle of the room. He’s stripped out of his kevlar and weapons, but he’s still wearing his BDUs and combat boots. His black t-shirt is sweaty and his hair is pulled away from his face like he usually does on missions. The way it had been in Cleveland.

Steve can’t help the loud, clicking swallow in his throat at the look on Bucky’s face.

“So. You thought that rushing in without backup would be a good idea, huh?” Bucky asks, with a veneer of apparent calm. “Especially after I asked you not to? I was very specific, Steve.”

Steve can only shake his head, rooted on the spot like a rabbit facing an apex predator, but unlike a rabbit, Steve really really doesn’t want to run. He really really wants to be caught.

“You know, I’ve been giving you some leeway in the past few weeks, waiting to see if you could be a good boy for me,” Bucky says, slowly walking towards Steve, his steps calm and measured, “but it looks like you need some help in that department, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Steve manages to croak out.

“Yes, _what_?”

The question goes off like an atomic explosion in Steve’s belly. Hot and sudden and overwhelming, making his limbs heavy. He closes his eyes, and finally says it. The words have been on his tongue so many times, in so many ways.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.”

Bucky’s hand comes to rest on the back of his head, fingers combing into the damp strands.

“Now be a good boy and bend over the sofa for me.”

Steve moves towards the couch like he’s half-asleep, stiff and uncoordinated. Bucky follows him, just a few steps behind, waiting for Steve to get there on his own, but he stops next to the couch just before bending down, fiddling with the drawstrings of his sweatpants.

“Go on,” Bucky encourages. His body is curved towards Steve, expectant, waiting.

Hesitantly, Steve pushes his pants down his thighs. He isn’t wearing any underwear. There wasn’t any in the bathroom. He wasn’t expecting things to happen now, he wasn’t…but Bucky just smiles at him, encouraging. “Well, somebody’s eager.” Voice soft, almost smiling.

Steve bends over, ass high up in the air. On display for Bucky and blushing down to his nipples. He feels them hardening where they’re pressed against the fabric of the couch as he settles over the armrest. Arousal and shame fighting for space in his brain. Those crossed wires that never fail to get him hot and hard and leaking.

He closes his eyes and hears Bucky’s retreating steps. He’s going to the kitchen, Steve thinks. Footfalls heavy and deliberate. He’s letting Steve hear. Letting him listen to the tell-tale sound of one of the knives being pulled from the block by the sink and the scrape of the fruit bowl on the marble countertop.

He waits, desperately trying to listen to the noises coming from the kitchen, desperately trying to place them. There’s a clink of the knife against Bucky’s metal fingers a few times, a strange sort of scrape that Steve can barely hear.

Finally, Bucky places the knife into the sink with a loud clatter that startles Steve, making him rub his nipples even more into the fabric of the couch. It feels rough and stiff. The garbage chute is slid open and something is wiped into it with a soft thwack.

Steve presses his fists against the plush cushions, fingernails cutting into the palms of his hands. Squeezes his eyes shut, toes pressed into the cool floor. His body is tense, wired. Everything feels sensitive, and he’s hyper-aware of even the air pressure around him. The minute changes in the room as Bucky moves around the kitchen, humming like he has no care in the world.

Steve hears the tap running as Bucky fills a glass with water. The tap closes and the glass is placed on the counter with a clink. Then something plops into the water.

Then finally, finally, Bucky walks back to the living room. His steps loud and deliberate once again. The glass is placed on the side table, and still Steve doesn’t look up. He’s keeping his forehead pressed into the couch. He’s being good. He wants to be good, but a loud smacking noise makes him jerk up and lift his head as if on command. Makes him look over his shoulder at Bucky, who’s still dressed in ops black.

In his hands is a wide leather strap. Making sure Steve’s watching, he smacks it against his flesh palm again. The sound of it makes shivers run up Steve’s spine. Makes the hairs on the back of his head stand up. The heady mix of fear and humiliation at the sight of the implement of punishment in Bucky’s hands.

“Reach back with your hands and pull yourself open for me, baby,” Bucky smiles, wicked and knowing, and Steve swallows, his mouth dry.

“Yes, Sir,” he mutters against the cushions, and reaches back, pulling his ass cheeks wide with his hands. Spreading his knees as much as the sweatpants twisted around his knees allow.

“Wider, baby,” Bucky says, running a cool metal finger on the inside of Steve’s thigh. He yanks the sweatpants down further, all the way to Steve’s ankles with a sudden tug, and taps the inside of his knee. As instructed, Steve spreads his legs wider, toes now barely reaching the hardwood floor, and Bucky’s looking pleased at him, making him shiver all over again.

“Good boy,” Bucky murmurs, running his cool metal hand up Steve’s thigh, over his presented ass, his fingers squeezing over flesh and down between Steve’s legs again. Thumb stroking over the plump flesh of his perineum.

“This is the first part of your punishment,” Bucky explains as he wraps his palm around Steve’s thigh, metal thumb sliding south to touch the root of his balls.

“I’m going to give you five. Every time you let go, I’m going to add another stroke. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” Steve nods against the couch.

Bucky stands up and for a moment Steve can’t see him, his eyes fixed on the side of the room, looking at the white wall and the abstract painting hanging there. His ear pressed into the seat of the couch, muffling some of the sounds in the room. The first smack lands right over his hole and takes Steve by surprise, the pain making him pitch forward and let go with a pained “ah!”

“That’s one extra,” Bucky tuts, almost pleased. Steve can hear the satisfied smile in his voice. Like he’d known that Steve would let go, like he’d planned it.

Steve scrambles back into position, pulling his cheeks wide apart again, feeling the stretch at his hole. It’s already tender just from the one hit. Bucky presses on the inside of his thigh with the edge of the strap and Steve spreads even wider, feeling exposed and ashamed. The feeling snakes down his spine, headier and more potent than arousal could ever be.

His cock is already hard and leaking where it rubs against the side of the couch. Leaving streaks of precome on the fabric when Steve pitches forward again with the next hit. He grinds his teeth together, fighting the noise, some of that old stubbornness raising its head suddenly.

But at the third smack, Steve can’t help but cry out. The pain spreading out from his anus like a hot tidal wave. Bucky’s right on target each time and Steve’s asshole feels like it’s on fire, but Bucky’s not done with him yet. It’s clear from the way he’s humming under his breath, the way he lets his cool metal thumb ghost over the tight, hurt pucker.

Steve bears the fourth hit by pressing his face into the cushions, breathing in the musty smell, panting and drooling into the fabric. His legs are trembling, he’s fighting to keep them spread, fighting to keep himself open for the punishment. He counts five and six with sharp little cries, his body shaking, trembling with each smack.

The hurt over his ass spreads like a warm blanket when Bucky’s finally done, his hands massaging up and down Steve’s thighs, almost like he’s admiring the sight of his spanked anus. He wonders what it looks like, if he’s as red and swollen as he feels.

He jerks as Bucky spits and the wet gob lands right on his hole. Bucky digs his knuckles into Steve’s perineum, waking up that pleasure deep in his belly. Steve can’t help but moan. He wants Bucky to press his thumb into him, press it inside, make it hurt even more, but Bucky doesn’t.

Instead he orders “hands behind your head,” and it takes a moment for Steve to get his body to obey. To unclench his hands from his ass cheeks. It feels like he’s moving underwater; his arms are like lead as he finally crosses his fingers behind his head. Pressing his cheek into the soft cotton of the couch. Steve feels wetness at the corner of his eye as Bucky runs a gentle finger down the side of his face, wiping away the errant tear. He hadn't even noticed he’d been crying.

“You’re being such a good boy,” Bucky praises him. Peppering his face and shoulders with soft, gentle touches.

Steve’s hole feels hot and sore between his now-closed cheeks, throbbing in time with his heartbeat, making his toes curl on the floor, but he knows that Bucky’s not done yet. He _hopes_ that Bucky isn’t done.

Bucky rises up from his crouch by Steve’s face and he hears the glass again. Clinking on the side table, and then Bucky’s moving behind him and spreading his ass cheeks with a thumb and forefinger. Steve can feel something pressing against his spit-wet rim. With a twist of his fingers, Bucky forces the thing inside until it’s settled snugly like a small plug. It doesn’t feel too big, maybe as thick as a single finger.

Steve rocks into the feeling of it inside of him as Bucky rubs the palm of his hand over the base of his spine. His hole is so sore, and it feels wonderful.

“This is the second part of your punishment.”

Bucky’s voice is low. He leaves Steve bent over the couch as he goes back to the kitchen. Steve can hear the tap running again as Bucky washes his hands, listening to the squelch of the soap. Bucky’s taking his time, drawing it out for a good long while.

Steve shifts on the couch, restless and unsettled. Body thrumming with adrenaline and need. Then, suddenly, he starts feeling it. The steady, low burn in and around his anus. He must make a noise, because Bucky chuckles from the kitchen.

“Feeling it now, huh?” he asks in a low, knowing tone.

His footsteps approach the couch, and Steve turns to look at him over his shoulder. There’s a smug look in Bucky’s eyes as he lets his gaze travel over Steve’s prone form. He stands there watching, the black of his t-shirt and BDUs stark in the comfort of their living room.

“It takes a little while to get started, but once it does…” Bucky punctuates the sentence with a light smack on Steve ass, which makes him clench down. Which in turn makes whatever’s in his ass burn even more.

“Fuck,” he gasps into the couch, fingers bunching up the fabric. He can’t remember when he slid them from behind his head, but Bucky doesn’t say anything, doesn't correct him, so he thinks it’s okay.

“The Victorians were very fond of a peeled finger of ginger root, or so I’ve read,” Bucky continues, easy like he’s suddenly talking about the weather. “Liked to use it with a caning, I think.”

“Bucky,” Steve moans. Twisting and writhing over the arm of the couch. Pushing his ass up into the air like it’s going to give him any relief. The ginger burns at his hole, the sensation of it spreading around Steve’s pelvis, making his cock drool even more against the sofa.

“Fortunately for you, I don’t have a cane. You’re just going to have to settle for this.” Bucky picks up the leather strap again from the side table where he’d laid it down earlier.

“Alright, baby boy,” he punctuates the words with slow smacks of the strap against his palm. “Time for the final part of your punishment now.”

The metal hand presses down on Steve’s lower back, steadying him, keeping him still, and Bucky swings. Steve doesn’t count the hits this time. Bucky hasn’t asked him to. He just sinks into the feeling, the sharp pain and the hot ache rolling through him as Bucky builds into a steady rhythm.

Steve can’t help but twist and wiggle over the arm of the couch, even under the weight of Bucky’s arm. The strap hurts a lot more than Bucky’s hand, leaving fiery imprints on his ass. The noise it makes echoes in the apartment, only punctuated by Steve’s gasps and moans and the low sounds of encouragement Bucky makes at the back of his throat.

Eventually, there’s no unmarked skin, and the hits land on already tender spots. Sometimes Bucky changes the angle, hitting the inside of Steve’s thighs or catching the tip of the strap right over Steve’s perineum, which makes him almost howl.

The ginger burns in his ass, and Steve tries to not clench down on each smack, but he can’t. Can’t help but tense, squeeze his bottom exactly like Bucky must have wanted.

Steve lets himself cry. “Sir, please, Sir.” Lets himself beg in ways that he would never with anyone else, to anyone else.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” Bucky croons, but doesn’t lose his rhythm. Each smack landing with the precision Steve’s learned to associate with Bucky in the field. It makes him feel hot and squirmy inside. Thinking of Bucky as his CO, thinking of Bucky punishing him for his infractions. Making their squad watch as he does so. Showing everyone who Steve belongs to.

Steve can’t help the wordless noises he’s making. Desperate little howls, the breathless cries that escape him. He wants to come, it’s building in his pelvis, but Bucky hasn’t given him permission. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, how many hits, but suddenly everything stops and the only sound in the room is Steve’s soft sobs where his mouth is half-pressed into the couch.

“Good boy, Steve. You’ve been so good for me.”

Bucky’s hands are running up and down his back, combing through the sweaty strands of his hair. He wraps his fingers around Steve’s tightly clenched fists, pulls them open with so much care, petting the half-moons Steve’s nails have left on his palms.

“Good boy,” he says, low and sweet. “You took it so well.”

Steve’s nodding, unable to stop the hiccuping sobs quite yet, trying to pull in shuddering breaths. Bucky nuzzles at the back of his head, his body bent over Steve’s. Warm and strong and safe. He slides a few fingers between Steve’s spanked cheeks and grips the base of the ginger. It comes out with a gentle tug and part of Steve wants to cry at the absence of it. Clenching down instinctually and feeling its loss.

Eventually, his breath settles, and Bucky reaches over to wipe the tear tracks from his cheeks with his thumbs. He wraps his arms around Steve’s chest and pulls him up.

“Alright, up you come, baby.”

Steve’s legs feel unsteady. He’s swaying, stumbling as Bucky guides him towards the far wall. His hands are heavy on Steve’s shoulders as he pushes Steve to his knees by the wall. He goes down like a sack of potatoes, a puppet with its strings cut. His knees hurt when they hit the hardwood floor, but it all feels muted, distant.

“Now, you’re going to have ten minutes of time out, forehead against the wall,” Bucky guides him.

He sets Steve the way he wants. Knees spread and hands clasped behind his head. Elbows resting on the wall creating a small, dark space, and Steve closes his eyes, feeling the pain radiating over his ass, just as Bucky wants him to. He tries to breathe, a steady in-and-out, but his heels dig into his bottom, pulling at his sore hole, pressing into the spanked flesh, and Steve can’t settle down.

He tries to be good, but can’t help the little whines that escape past his lips. The way he’s shifting and not settling. The way his cock still throbs, hard and leaking and unsatisfied. For a moment, he worries that Bucky’s going to leave him like this. Won’t let him come, that it’s part of his punishment.

Bucky’s hand is suddenly warm and huge on the back of his head.

“Can't stay still, huh, baby boy?” he asks, and he’s so gentle now, kind in a way that Steve knows he doesn’t deserve. He nods his head, sobbing a little into the dark space made by his arms. He’s so close to crying and he doesn’t even know why. Shifting and moving restlessly on his knees. Each shift pulls at his hole, waking that pain all over again. That heat and ache that Bucky put there.

“It’s okay, baby,” Bucky coos. “Let me take care of you.”

Steve hears Bucky moving to the couch and then back again, the ice clinking in the glass as Bucky gets it from the side table. Eventually, he comes to kneel behind Steve. He can feel the heat of Bucky’s body radiating out even when they’re not touching. Smell the earthy musk of Bucky. He must not even have showered after the op, just come straight to the apartment. _Waiting for Steve_.

He can’t help but let out a desperate little wail when the wet icy tip of an ice cube is pressed against his sore, swollen hole. He cries out as Bucky slowly presses it inside, following it with his fingers until he’s knuckle deep. Steve feels the cold inside, his channel contracting wildly around the intrusion.

“Good boy,” Bucky murmurs against Steve’s ear. “Do you need another one?”

“Sir,” Steve breathes out, and nods against the wall. Pushing back desperately against Bucky’s hand still pressed between his ass cheeks. Or at least he tries to push back, but the way Bucky’s placed him means he’s got a limited range of motion, his ass pressing to his heels.

This time Bucky takes his time, rubbing the ice leisurely over Steve’s sore rim, settling the rounded tip of the cube right into the divot of Steve’s asshole.

“Such a good boy, Stevie,” he murmurs right into Steve’s ear, body pressed against Steve’s back, hand working the ice until it slips inside, holding it right there, keeping Steve open as his anus tries to naturally push out the intrusion. Slowly pushing it back inside as it melts from the heat of Steve’s body.

Steve gasps and sobs; he’s so hungry for it. Fingers curling and uncurling at his neck where he’s trying to hold them, trying to be good. He can feel Bucky’s cock, the thick, heavy weight of it through the front of his BDUs where it’s pressed into Steve’s hip.

The feel of it just makes him push back against Bucky’s fingers more. Inviting, letting Bucky know that he wants it, needs it. It’s just Bucky now, the ice all melted, just his thick, callused fingers working inside Steve’s ass, forcing him open only with water and spit, and it hurts. His sore rim stretched open.

Steve cries out as Bucky pulls his fingers away, and gets a smack over his sore bottom in return.

“Kneel up,” Bucky commands, voice suddenly gruff and low. Hand guiding Steve up, pressing the fleshy part of his ass upward. Steve does as he’s told, still leaning against the wall for support. Letting his back arch and his knees spread out on the wood floor.

He wants Bucky to see his pink hole, see where he’s stretched Steve out, where he’s hurt him so well. Where he’s made his mark. He hears Bucky rummaging in his pocket and then the tell-tale sound of a packet ripping. Bucky rubs the lubricant around his hole, and then there’s the sound of a zipper opening. Steve breathes into the dark space between his hands, pants with want and need. Listening to the slick sounds of Bucky spreading the lube on his cock.

He knows what Bucky’s cock looks like now, the thick length of it, knows what it feels like in his mouth. Sliding down his throat while Bucky fucks his face with a single-minded focus. How dark his eyes get right before he comes. The way he looks at Steve like he’s the only thing he needs.

The tip of Bucky’s cock is wide and round and feels huge as he finally presses it against Steve’s hole.

“Bear down for me now,” Bucky breathes into his ear, and Steve does, forcing himself to open, to take Bucky inside his body like he deserves to be taken. Wholly and quickly. The hot, wet slide of it hurts and Steve cries out, overwhelmed and racked with pain.

It’s perfect, just so perfect.

“Fuck, Sir, Sir, please, harder,” he chants, and Bucky doesn’t disappoint. His left hand grabs hold of the back of Steve’s neck and then they’re properly fucking. The slick sounds and their harsh breathing filling the room.

“You should see yourself, Stevie. All marked up. Red and swollen and hurt,” Bucky pants into his ear, and Steve moans his assent, knees scraping on the floor and hips aching from the pressure, from the way Bucky’s holding him; and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

His cock is so hard, almost painful now, a long strand of pre-come dribbling down and puddling on the floor in front of him. He wonders if Bucky is going to make him clean it up, if he’ll press Steve to the floor once he’s done with him and command him to lick it clean. The thought alone makes his cock jerk, dangerously close to the edge.

It’s like Bucky knows, because he leans over Steve’s back and buries his cock so deep Steve thinks he’ll never get it all out, and says “come, now,” and Steve does.

He screams, eyes closed and forehead pressed into the wall. His sore hole clenching around Bucky’s iron length, his cock spurting stripes and stripes of come all over the floor, while Bucky just holds him, buried inside of him. Feeling the contractions of his ass, fingers digging into Steve’s hip bones so hard there’ll be bruises there for hours and hours.

Once Steve’s finished Bucky pushes him forward, pressing him fully against the wall, and starts to thrust. Once, twice, three rough fucks and Bucky’s coming too. Steve can feel it all. The way Bucky’s cock seems to get even harder, the way it pulses and jerks inside him. The way it coats his insides in Bucky’s come, filling him up.

They stay like that for a long time, pressed into the wall and pressed together. Sweaty and dirty and perfect. Breathing in sync like they’re just a single being. Steve doesn’t want to open his eyes. Not now, not when he finally feels safe. Caught between the wall and Bucky’s body. He’s where he belongs.

But eventually he feels Bucky’s hands moving, slowly mapping his sides and his shoulders and the outsides of his arms. He can feel Bucky draw a breath and then speak.

“Is this what you want?” he asks. “For me to look after you like this?”

Steve nods, face pressed into the wall, his eyes still closed. He doesn’t know the words to ask for it, doesn’t know how to make those formless thoughts into words and sentences and questions.

“Okay,” Bucky says, and then more to himself, “and I haven’t been doing such a good job of that, have I?”

Steve squeezes his hand, tries to shake his head. Bucky’s been so good to him, better than he deserves.

“Shh,” Bucky just shushes him, running his hands down Steve’s chest and belly. “It’s okay, I’m here now.”

Somehow, he pulls Steve to his feet. Sore and sticky and with his legs shaking, and takes him to the shower.

He washes Steve with a gentle sort of reverence, stopping every once in a while to press a kiss into his skin. The washcloth slick with soap, sliding over his body, over those places that still ache and hurt. If Steve cries, no one can see it under the spray of water, or maybe Bucky does, because he cups Steve’s face in his hands and kisses his lax open mouth and his closed eyelids, the bridge of his nose.

When Bucky takes him to bed, Steve clings to him, almost desperate in his grip.

“Shh,” Bucky shushes him again, lips pressed against his temple, but Steve doesn’t feel soothed, his heartbeat suddenly frantic in his chest.

“I don’t want to be alone.”

The words come out a garbled mess into Bucky’s chest, and Bucky’s hand comes up over his shoulders, petting, soothing, worried.

“You aren’t,” he tries to assure, placing kisses over Steve’s temple as he holds him as close as two people can get, but Steve still wants more.

“I want you in me,” he whispers, sliding his hands down Bucky’s chest down to the root of his cock. He’s still damp there from the shower, the wiry dark hair wet against Steve’s fingers.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “We can do that, Sweetheart.”

It takes a bit of maneuvering. Bucky pressing on his shoulder until Steve rolls onto his side. A squelch of lube as Bucky spreads it liberally around his still-aching hole, making him so, so wet. Then Bucky’s pressing tight into his back, using his fingers to help press his half-hard cock inside Steve.

He settles there, like a tight blanket of heat, and Steve closes his eyes. Feeling the steady fullness of Bucky in him, the reawakened hurt in his ass, the clockwork of Bucky’s breath on his neck, on his shoulder as he falls asleep.

Steve fights sleep, fights to stay in this feeling, to remember it, to keep it with him forever.


End file.
